10% Destructive Capability - You can smash down building walls in a single blow. Combat Speed - 10 m/s
20% Destructive Capability - You can destroy two-story houses in a single blow. Combat Speed - 20 m/s
30% Destructive Capability - You can bring down a typical multi-story building with repeated blows. Combat Speed - 30 m/s
40% Destructive Capability - You can bring down a typical multi-story building with a single strike. Combat Speed - 50 m/s
50% Destructive Capability - You can reduce apartment buildings to rubble with one concentrated blow. Combat Speed - 100 m/s
60% Destructive Capability - You can cause enough destruction that even skyscrapers can be smashed apart in an instant. Combat Speed - Half the Speed of Sound
75% Destructive Capability - You can cause enough damage that an entire city block will feel the impact of your explosive power, buildings crumbling and the ground rupturing. Combat Speed - Mach 2
Those who have gotten official permission to head aboveground, such as scavengers or excavators that have made a name for themselves, as well as Daybreakers, are privy to special transceivers that use fairly rudimentary technology. With relay stations set up at every Lastlight, short messages can be sent in that network of space. Each transceiver has three different LED lights that signify different levels of importance, while short messages themselves are sent out in Morse code, often two letters that act as coordinates for Daybreakers to converge upon.
A green coordinate means a low threat mission, usually the elimination of a single Tyrant that had strayed too close to a shelter.
A yellow coordinate means a medium threat mission, perhaps an attack upon a town or the rescue of those stranded on the Ashen Lands.
A red coordinate invariably involves the presence of the Scarlet Moon, a mission of urgency that needs to be completed even in incredibly dangerous circumstances.
Due to the nature of these simple transceivers, mission details are rarely, if ever known before the Daybreakers plunge into the surface, and these transceivers only serve as a method of saving those who have them. Many who enter the Ashen Lands are not equipped with such a valuable piece of technology, and even the Daybreakers themselves do not bring these tools with them to the Ashen Lands, preferring to leave them behind in the last town they visit before heading up.
When all three LEDs are lit up, it serves as a signal for the individuals to head to the closest Lastlight.
The sun doesn’t rise and the stars don’t shine. Utter darkness encapsulates the surface world, broken only by a Scarlet Moon that illuminates a banquet of bloodshed for the deathless Tyrants roaming remnants of the Age of Indulgence. A black miasma pervades civilization’s ruins, rotting the lungs and deluding the mind, white carcasses strewn everywhere as monsters enjoy their immortality within this lifeless landscape.
The world had ended, God slain and its children slaughtered.
But humanity’s last clung on, persistently surviving deep underground, huddling in the darkness of caves, subsisting off subterranean lifeforms and finding comfort in what flames could be cultivated within. Small communities flourished into multi-level towns, held together by scaffolding, rudimentary tunnels becoming the foundation for an entire network. They survived, yet still, they were vermin, hiding in the shadows of their predators, their desperation for survival enough that entire towns would be quarantined if monsters sniffed it out.
It was a pitiful, cowardly, disgusting way of life, one that was nevertheless ‘accepted’.
Indeed, humans could not face the immortal Tyrants, the immortal monsters that exuded a flesh-decaying fog.
No, a different soul was required. One that was not satisfied with simply ‘living’. One that still held dreams in a world that was already dead. One that had an irresistible longing for the unattainable.
Wielding the vestiges of a dead God, consuming the might of the Tyrants they slay, they are the last amongst humanity that still choose to fight.
With Hope as their spark, Desire as their fuel, their flames chase away the darkness.
With God as their blade, Corruption as their strength, their fangs reach even the undying.
No matter how many times they die, their will shall not collapse.
They are Daybreakers, illuminators of a lightless world, incinerators of a sin-drenched present.
The ones that fight for a happy ending in a world seeking tragedy.
Vegetation had long disappeared from the world, leafy canopies replaced by the rustic remains of concrete buildings that have been skewered by massive obsidian spikes. Often, a heavy cloud cover obscures the stars, leaving nothing but a dreary, dark sky to look to, revolving from dim to pitch black. This darkness is broken only by the advent of the Scarlet Moon, the only celestial object that still easily asserts its presence upon the land. A terrible sight to behold, this disc of red sets the entire cloudscape afire, serving as a six hour period where the Tyrants are ‘fully’ awakened and active, rampaging and reveling in the destruction they can cause each other. For humans, the Scarlet Moon serves both as a friend and an enemy, being their warning to scurry back underground.
Rain, snow, and other heavy weather comes regularly upon the Ashen Lands, violent lightning coursing through the ever-present cloud cover, while torrential rains can both flood tunnels and fill reservoirs. For all the dangers that the surface world presents, there are nevertheless a few salvagers willing to risk it. Wearing gas masks of questionable quality, they brave the dangers of the environment and the presence of the Tyrants in order to get their hands on technology from a lost era. An ill-advised, but incredibly ludicrous profession, only the best survive without the aid of the Daybreakers.
Where men live alongside their buried dead, the Catacombs is a network of communities connected by tunnels, taking advantage of manmade and natural forming caves to create living spaces for them. Often situated close to an underwater lake or river, it isn’t uncommon for buildings to be stacked on top of each other in order to make space. Clay and stone are the most common building materials, though sheets of steel and canvas are similarly used. Most construction effort, however, is put on the reinforcement of the great gates that allow access to the tunnels. From deep moats that divert the flow of a rapid river in order to sweep away all that fall into it to massive gates that can collapse outwardly and completely block off a tunnel with the ensuring rubble, these serve as the only line of defense against any Tyrants that discover one of these tunnels.
While the majority of construction efforts are primitive, major cities can be found in what used to be large, underground shopping malls. Food is mainly gathered through carefully managing the population of fish within a lake, while a rare luminescent ore mined in certain towns allow for the growth of greenery underground, the few seeds scavenged from aboveground being incomparably valuable if they turn out to be edible. Outside of powerful individuals living within the Lastlights, underground metropolises that still have some degree of functioning technology, the towns of the Catacombs are bereft of any benefits lingering from the Era of Indulgence, homes lit up with torches or bioluminescent fish.
From skyscraping behemoths to the shadow of a small child, there is no rhyme or reason to the appearance of Tyrants, immortal monsters that have terrorized humanity for as long as anyone can remember. Their origin is unknown. Their physiology is extraordinarily varied. Their powers are innumerable. Even the weakest of Tyrants cannot be harmed by mortal hands, only buried or removed with traps that take immense amounts of manpower to set up, while the strongest of their kind have singlehandedly threatened the extinction of the human race with their colossal might.
For all that is unknown about the Tyrants, though, there are three things that are clear: their obsession with the eradication of humanity is reasonless, the strength of a Tyrant correlates with their intelligence, and, most importantly, they all exude a black mist from their body that spreads like a poison. Those that breathe in this debilitating fog will quickly collapse, their organs failing one by one before they die, flesh turning into ash a couple minutes afterwards. Even the usage of gas masks only delays the inevitable, a five minute death extended to ten to fifteen minutes. Only the flames of the Daybreakers can burn away the fog, and even then, that flame may not be enough to chase away the dark mist. It is this mist that makes it inconceivable for any sane human to seek cooperation with the Tyrants.
By their mere presence, life withers away.
It takes an unnatural soul to assimilate a vestige of a dead god, a soul that refuses death, a soul that yearns for the unattainable. The Daybreakers are the rare existences within the Ashen Lands that can still visualize a future, that still believe in the bottom of their hearts that their dreams will come true. Their motivations may differ from one another, and their heads may not be screwed on right, but for Daybreakers, their strength comes from their ability to continuously smash into the barriers that stand before them, an obstinate heart that refuses to give up. This willpower, this dedication, this desperate is what empowers the remnants of divinity that they house within their body.
Upon the invocation of their Epitaph, the keyword that fully awakens the vestige within them, their Cowl and their Crown, the garments and the weapons respectively, manifest, overwriting all else upon their body. The Cowl is an all-purpose armor, heaped with blessings that provide night vision, immunity to suffocation, and, most importantly, the ability to dull damage. The Crown, on the other hand, manifests as a weapon that aligns most accurately with the Daybreaker’s image of ‘power’. Whether it be a sword, a shield, or a gun, they are all invariably capable of being called to the Daybreaker’s side regardless of distance, and feel nigh-weightless in their hands. Furthermore, these Crowns are shrouded within a bright flame, burning in proportion to the strength of the Daybreaker. These flames are the only things capable of burning away and reversing the effects of a Tyrant’s black miasma.
But, most importantly, these flaming weapons are the only tools capable of suppressing the Corruption that dwells within the body of a Daybreaker and that enables the immortality of the Tyrants.
For all the blessings granted to the Daybreakers by their Cowl and Crown, however, they still must take a step further in order to match the incomprehensibly powerful Tyrants. The tools alone aren’t enough. To face them, what is needed is the power to match.
Thus, to truly slay a monster, they must become monsters.
Once the vestige is assimilated with their souls, the body of a Daybreaker is baptized in the Corruption extracted from the bodies of Tyrants. Through this exposure, their bodies undergo significant changes, becoming something no longer human. They too are immortal, possessing regenerative capabilities that allow them to come back even after being crushed to pulp or minced into tiny cubes. The blood that they bleed is endless, and they lose their need to eat or sleep, though both are still preferred when necessary. Beyond that, however, their physical bodies change as well, while many Daybreakers have encountered visions of a ‘demon’ that exists in their body. The physical strength that they possess becomes nothing short of superhuman, and the manifestation of a supernatural ability is to be expected.
The most frightening part, however, is the fact that the Daybreakers can, by giving away more of their humanity, increase their power further, using the protection of their divine vestiges in order to maintain their sanity. Most Daybreakers start off at 10% Corruption, but, as time passes, will incrementally increase that amount at the face of challenges they cannot surpass with their current strength. Once reaching 50%, most are no longer capable of deactivating their Cowl and Crown, for the constant presence of their cleansing flame is what keeps them sane. Once reaching 75%, only the most exceptional can still be sure that they are the same person they once were. At 90%, those that still maintain their identities as Daybreakers willingly banish themselves to the Ashen Lands, reveling in the god-like strength they’ve made theirs.
Past that threshold, no one knows. It’s commonly believed they too turn into Tyrants, devout to destruction.
Sometimes, the strength of demons and the might of your beliefs still isn’t enough to overcome the adversary before you. Sometimes, all you can do is pass your dream on to someone else. For Daybreakers, falling into despair is the same as death, as their Cowl and Crown lose their powers, Corruption eating away their mind and body.
And so, on the brink of despair, against a foe that they know they cannot defeat, there is a song that comes to the minds of all Daybreakers. A swan song woven from a tongue humans were not meant to understand. A password that unlocks the final power that can be granted by mixing divinity and corruption together.
Self Destruction.
Incineration is the last resort of all Daybreakers, a tenfold boost to their power that takes their lifeforce as a collateral, every remaining year in their lifespan converted into the tenth of a second, before, just like any other person poisoned by the Tyrant’s miasma, their bodies crumble to dust, leaving not a single trace of the person who was once there.
This is their prayer to the future that they believed in, the greatest symbol of trust they have to those who will come after them.
(Insert Character Image. Anime-style preferred.) (Insert their catchphrase/quote/whatever else) (Insert their Name, and their Epitaph. The Epitaph is essentially a title that may or may not hint to their abilities, past, or motivations. Examples could be ‘Wrought Iron Hero’, ‘Polar Star Magus’, ‘The Bell of Heaven.’) (Insert what they most desire, in a couple of sentences. This should generally be a task that is incredibly difficult, if not impossible, to attain. Preferably, this should also be a selfish desire.)
(Write a short story about your character. This can either be direct, such as something detailing the most important event in their life, or indirect, such as a metaphorical story with cute talking animals to substitute for whatever else. It doesn’t have to be long. It just has to be interesting.)
@Eleos A question: if all she desires is to be gigantically powerful, is there a particular reason why you think she wouldn't just raise her Corruption percentage to 100% and go full Tyrant?
All the PC Daybreakers will be. There's a loose organization of them, more or less, with powerful Daybreakers generally taking on administrative duties, partly so that they will be in perfect condition if an overbearingly powerful Tyrant emerges.
Food is always a concern. Those who control the food supplies are generally the ones in power, but one of the functions of the Daybreakers is to serve as lawkeepers to ensure that humans don't screw each other over, especially in a world where it's already hard enough for a united humanity to coexist.
Of course, Daybreakers can't be everywhere at once, and there are always splinter factions who decided to completely isolate themselves from the rest of humanity in order to do whatever they want, under the assumption that if all the tunnels are sealed, no Tyrant can pry open their little nest.
Females are generally more valued than males, because the population always needs replacing. Take that how you will.
Marcus was in a difficult situation. Hopefully his little talk with Emma had put her a little more at ease, even if had done the exact opposite for him. Right now, with everything catching up to him, he just wanted to hide. Find a place away from the reminders and just stay there for a while.
Unfortunately, he needed to go check on the rest of the team; his roommates, Lily, maybe even check up on Lawrence and try to stammer out some sort of half-apology to him. It's not like there was anyway to defend himself, and it seemed insulting to just apologize and then leave him there. Perhaps that was an interaction that would have to wait until after they got back.
If he passed by a store on the way, he'd probably have to stop in and get some food that wasn't motel food; a dish he'd learned to not trust far before the current events. He pondered this as he walked down the hallway, trying to think of the best way to exit without being mobbed.
"A hospital a few blocks down the road," Brent repeated to himself, taking steps two at a time as he descended. It said a lot about just how little he did when he had come out of a warzone feeling relatively energetic. Outside of the faint emptiness of his stomach everything was disgustingly 'normal', and with all this excess energy, the brunette had resolved to burn it away productively, by acting the part of a deliverer of dinners.
Hospital food, after all, was notoriously bad, even when the cooks would have known that they would be serving hangry subnaturals that night.
Turning the corner, Brent blinked, before waving at a familiar face. "Heyo," he said, "Going out for a stroll?"
Ernie froze and turned to the voice, the instinctively distrustful expression on his face falling away when he saw who it was. Though he considered Brent a friend, Ernie wasn't really in the mood to talk with anyone right now. He tried anyway, since it was Brent.
"Kinda, yeah," he nodded, raising the empty canvas bag in his hand, "Need to buy some supplies. News guys are gonna be a nightmare to get past though."
"You think so?" Marcus said, strolling up to the two. He'd seen them as he walked down the hallway, but had only just gotten close enough to discern their identities. Brent, who he hadn't had the opportunity to talk with much, and Ernie, who he was tentatively friends with.
"Don't think there's a back door or something they're not perched by, do you?"
"There usually is a fire exit," Brent replied, dragging his fingers through his hair, "And I saw them congregating mainly at the front entrance. Honestly, even if there's a bunch of them just staking out the alleyway...well, I don't think I'd particularly mind?"
"Not like we're the most photogenic anyways. With Ernie being a dangerously unstable x-mark who lives on the edge of a homicidal rampage and you being a veteran subnatural who had seen a thousand battles, maybe we can just scare them enough to consider going after someone else."
Was that a little too much, a little too soon?
"Unless you guys wanna go on a roofhopping adventure instead."
Ernie stared at Brent, looking horrified. More than that, he was hurt. his actions following the collector attack were still branded so heavily into his mind. So he didn't say anything. Instead, he shoved past Brent and stalked towards the fire exit.
"Roofhopping sounds dumb as fuck," he muttered heatedly through grit teeth, "If you need me to play the 'angry X' then I'll do it. Whatever."
Marcus gave Brent a less-than-subtle glare at the 'homicidal rampage' remark. He was prone to sticking his foot in his own mouth more often than not, but even he knew that calling an aberration 'dangerously unstable' wasn't exactly the best way to make friends. And depsite his general unease of his X-Marked companions, he still considered Ernie to be a friend.
"Yeah, and I doubt you want to scrape me out of the alleyway after I miss a jump." he added, attempting to defuse the situation a little. "If we sneak out the back, hopefully we'll be able to move without attracting too much attention.
"Wait. Veteran subnatural?" he muttered mostly to himself, almost as an afterthought.
Too much, too soon indeed.
Fuck.
Brent let Ernie shove past him, before gritting his teeth. It was still hard for him to figure out how other people would react, especially when he had spent all his time up above, away from the chaos of fighting against clockworks and dealing with subnatural assassins. He had regressed once more, a split second of immaturity exposing how horrible he was.
He could take solace though, in the fact that this time, he recognized it, right? Unlike with Alex?
No, comparing himself to himself from a month or so ago was doubly pathetic. And though Brent mentally thanked Marcus for trying to make light of the situation, he didn't want to just drop that shit.
"Ernie," he said, swallowing the part of him that tired of apologizing, "Sorry about that. Wa-"
An excuse? Now? 'Wasn't thinking'?
"Was my bad. I'll head out first, and if there's any reporters, just slide on by while I chat them up."
Ernie regarded Brent with a blank glare before turning away with a small but unresentful "Okay". Not full forgiveness yet, but it was clear that there wasn't going to be a lifelong grudge sprouting from the careless words.
"So....bait." Marcus said, putting Brent's plan into simpler terms. It certainly meant his life was easier if he didn't have to deal with the cameras and shit, but the concept of using another person as bait didn't sit well with him.
Still, it seemed karmatically appropriate.
"I guess that makes you our glorious leader, then." Marcus said, giving a slight hand gesture for Brent to lead the way.
"Just don't get caught by the ones out on the road," Brent replied, finding it in himself to smile again. Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out a length of now-useless wishalloy, offering it to Ernie. "Was thinking about using this as a facemask or whatever, but it's probably more inconspicuous as a makeshift scarf."
All that needed to be said, really.
Hands pressed against the bar, he let out a deep breath, before pushing the door open as hard as possible, striding out with the self-confidence that he always faked.
Ernie accepted the wishalloy and wrapped it gratefully around his neck. Brent wasn't such an asshole after all, huh?
"Thanks, Brent," he said with a small, reluctant smile.
The tech mage opened the door to a dingy-looking alley. A bulky man was jostling the camera on his shoulder while a well-dressed woman, most likely the reporter he'd been assigned to, took a long drag from her red-smudged cigarette. Another pair of reporter and cameraman, a group from a separate station probably, was also present, staring vacantly at down the alley. All four jumped as the door swung open, the smoker quickly stubbing her cigarette on the ground and leaping to action as Brent's white streak was caught in the dim light.
"Hey! You're one of the USARILN East subnaturals, correct?" she leaned in, shoving a microphone into Brent's face. The microphone read "WBALTV".
The other reporter didn't take kindly to the sudden snipe and borderline shoulder-checked his rival.
"Can you give us any information on the attack on Wisford?"
"Hey, back off, I asked him first!"
"I'm asking the important questions here!"
The cameramen filmed on passively. It didn't seem that they would be making any move to stop an impending fight.
For a moment, Brent paused at just how voracious these regulars were. Then, he reminded himself of all the news he had seen on TV before, microphones and reporters jostling each other in large crowds in order to get a comment from some celebrity-turned-murderer, and forced a thought to remain in his head.
This was nothing. He was used to it. Why?
Because he was East's strongest.
Squaring up, he shot a quick glance towards Marcus and Ernie, before saying, a perfectly stunning smile on his face, "Before I talk to any of you specifically...which one of you is the bigger news channel here?"
The question gave the reporters pause. They hadn't been expecting a subnatural to be so co-operative so they weren't going to let this opportunity slide.
"Us, definitely!" the male reporter urged, "We won the Peabody Award, after all!"
"Only because you spout slander that bored housewives eat up," the woman hissed.
Ernie and Marcus began to creep out as the anchors continued their squabbling.
"Eh..." Brent said, tilting his head to the side, "I don't exactly want to share the raw and brutal details of the Wisford attack to a news channel that's known for slander...is what she's saying true, sir?"
What the fuck even was the Peabody Award? Was it even worth Googling after he got out of this alleyway?
"Wh-what, no... Hey, you asked who the bigger channel was! That's got nothing to do with it."
"So you'll tell us about Wisford?" the smoker brightened as her rival got questioned, ignoring his stammering.
Brent's companions were halfway down the road now. One of the cameramen attempted to point out the other two subnaturals but was rudely brushed off in favor of the information Brent was teasing.
"It has a lot to do with it," the arbiter replied, eyes narrowing, smile gone, "A hell lot of shit went down in Wisford, and the last thing I want to do is see the general public brush off the uncomfortable reality of the situation due to the ill repute of the channel."
A deep breath. A faked mood swing, before he was all smiles again.
Turning his attention to the bright-eyed lady, Brent said, "You're WBALTV, right? What's that supposed to stand for?"
The two reporters moved back slightly at the disconcerting mood shift. Though the woman was eager to get her hands on this scoop, she knew better than to provoke a subnatural, especially a potential nutjob that seemed to shift moods as quickly as this one. Best to just humor the boy and answer his strange question.
"Um, the W is for Woodberry, where the network's transmission tower and station is. BAL is for Baltimore, our designated area. And the TV is for television, of course. Is this important? Can you tell us what you know now?"
The two boys were almost completely out of the alley now. The out-of-nowhere tangent had bought a decent amount of time.
"Woodberry Baltimore Television," Brent muttered, repeating those pointless words as if it had some sort of deep meaning.
Then, he let out a sigh. Let's start with a cold open.
"...we codenamed it Propagator. A monster that created more, without requiring the consumption of resources." A pause, a furrowing of the brow. Remembrance of a painful memory. "You heard of the monster attack on Crimen Culpae, right? Perhaps did a report on that?"
"Y-yes, of course!" the reporter piped, getting more and more excited as Brent spoke, "Are you going to tell us about that too?"
A distant metallic thump suddenly sounded from around the corner, down the alley and out of sight from the reporting group. Ernie's attempt at some sort of "OK, go" signal.
Another dramatic pause. Pursed lips.
"They're related."
His arm flared up, silver circuits racing down from his shoulder to his fingertips. Tensing suddenly, Brent brought two of those fingers up to his temple, before a small puff of light burst.
"This is Gearhead." ... "What? She's awake?" ... "The cuffs are functioning, right?" ... "Got it, I'm heading over now."
The silver circuitry faded, before he turned to the woman apologetically. "Sorry," Brent said, "Got called in by Command. Got a business card or something?"
Both news crews had jumped back at the sudden light show. The woman protested while the cameramen filmed intently.
"What? You can't be leaving, we haven't even set up for an interview yet!"
The male reporter's hands rushed to his suit's pockets, patting frantically.
"There's a reason why we're not in USARILN right now." Brent said flatly, before brazenly walking through them, the very picture of a man on a mission. The reporters didn't let him go so easily, speedwalking with him as he moved. Two business cards were held out towards him.
"No, you can't leave now! Five minutes, tops. It doesn't have to be a proper interview, just give us one more official statement!"
...
Holy shit, they were annoying.
Brent looked at the cards, then back at them, and said, very slowly, enunciating each word to ensure that every syllable was pronounced perfectly, "I can't?"
His unnatural, amethyst eyes smouldered. This farce has gone on for long enough.
"I was going to offer an exclusive over the phone, but I suppose courtesy is dead now," he spat, before turning around. "Have fun trying to pry anything out of the others."
He burst into a shit-eating grin the moment his face turned away from the two, before Brent put eight years of leg day into good use, sprinting like an athlete off into the distance, adopting the perfect form that he learned from the greatest teacher of all: Google. The reporters tried to follow but were easily outrun, their protests still audible from behind.
"Dude, what did you do?" Ernie stifled a laugh as he and Marcus fell in step with Brent's fast pace. They'd have to keep running for a while if they wanted to leave those pests behind.
"Told them they were both worse than Fox News," Brent said, failing to maintain a straight face as the trio dashed on.
"Well that's a little bit harsh, dont'cha think?" Marcus said, laughing in between breaths as they took off. For a guy who'd been given a mobility power, he wasn't in the greatest of shape - running away from cameras was probably going to be enough cardio to last him a week.
The green and orange decal of the local 7-Eleven came into view after a few blocks. Fluorescent light spilled outwards as the boys entered the automatic doors, reflecting off the linoleum floor and sufficiently displaying all the products available. The store was well-heated too.
However, the warmth didn't seem to reach the store-owner, a middle-aged bordering on elderly woman with a stout frame. She scowled as the subnaturals walked in, though she didn't dare step out of her booth.
"I don't want trouble here," her glare moving over all three of them but lingering on the wrapping around Ernie's throat, "Get out of my store."
Marcus reeled back slightly, as if the words had physically hit him. He turned around, a puzzled expression on his face, trying to see if perhaps the lady had been mistaken, and was talking to another group of people. However, it appeared that they were indeed the target of the snippy geriatric, and it didn't take him many guesses to figure out why.
"Well that's a little bit rude. Marcus scoffed, immediately crossing his arms in irritation. "Whatever happened to 'the customer is always right'?"
Ernie regarded the store-owner with a deadly glint in his eye, his resentful glare remaining glued on her face as he removed the wishalloy to reveal his X mark. Not quite a threat, but the implication was clear. The woman bristled as he spoke.
"We're not moving," he said coldly, "Just let us get what we need and we'll be out of your hair."
As Marcus reeled and Ernie glared, Brent went on with his own business, quickly and efficiently grabbing plastic-packaged salads and sandwiches. For all the vitriol in the elderly woman's tone, he didn't appear to be effected at all. After a small mound was gathered, Brent stood up first in line once more, pulling out his ID.
"Good evening," he said, a smile on his face, "I'd also like to grab ten chicken thighs, four corn dogs, and four kebabs. Oh, and this is debit."
The arbiter didn't want an argument, nor a discussion. He didn't even bother to greet that woman by name. His amethyst eyes flickered towards his buds, before redirecting them onto the woman. There was a raised platform that she stood on, but even then, he was taller than her.
Brent's straightforwardness was met with a scoff. She looked to Marcus to answer his question. "You're not customers. We don't cater to subs here, 'specially that X one. And I got the right to refuse service. Beat it."
Marcus stood for a moment, as if trying to decide whether arguing with the old lady would be in any way beneficial. It took a long moment of deliberation with himself before he decided that it was at least worth getting the stuff that he'd come in here to get. It was just a few things, even if he had to throw the cash at the woman on his way out the door, he'd take it.
Still he waited to see how the others would react to the situation. If Brent had an answer for everything like it seemed he did, maybe they'd be able to resolve the whole problem.
"Okay," Brent said, eyes sliding around the store in search of a sign. Was there a sign? No there wasn't, she was just being a bitch. "You can bill this to USARILN East then. Our Director, her secretary, and the Commander of the security force there are all regulars. I'm sure they'd love to deal with this too!"
He gestured with the goods that he already had. "Either way, we'll be getting what we need and leaving with it. It's up to you whether we pay now or later."
There was a small part of him that wanted to just smash open the glass display case to all those trays of low-quality food and grab what he wanted...but Brent suppressed that urge. He wasn't an x mark. There shouldn't be any reason to want to rob the store.
But was there any reason for this old hag to be so stubborn?
The cashier's eyes narrowed at Brent. "Are you threatening me? That's it, I warned you. I'm calling the police."
Ernie strode up to the counter beside the upgrade mage, still glaring.
"That wasn't a threat. But you're gonna start hearing some if you don't get that hand away from that button under the counter," he growled lowly and summoning his rope but keeping it out of sight of the cameras he knew the locations of. This wasn't his first convenience store crackdown. The golden glow that coated his body made his X-mark look even darker in comparison. The woman gasped and shuffled back, her back pressed firmly against the wall.
"Woah, woah, woah." Marcus said, putting his hands up defensively, but not stepping between Ernie and the woman. "We're just here to enjoy the fine art of capitalism. We're not going to hurt anybody." he said, looking between the woman and Ernie.
This was quickly spiraling, and he certainly didn't want to be hunted by the cops for however long it was that they were stuck here. Not that he thought USARLIN would let anything happen to their precious students, but it was an added inconvenience that just didn't need to happen.
"It was a compromise," Brent added, his genuine, reflexive smile emerging once more. "I understand where you're coming from, cause I was a regular just a month or so ago, but Martha, both regulars and subnaturals need to eat."
"We're willing to pay and we put our own lives at risk to protect yours," the arbiter continued, shrugging. "Really, if you'd just take our money, we'll be out in a jiffy."
"It seriously doesn't have to be this hard."
Ernie looked curiously between his two companions. Damn, they were handling this a lot better than he did. He seriously needed to reevaluate his anger around Regulars.
Martha grimaced, but nodded reluctantly at the two arbiter's words. Her eyes kept flickering towards Ernie however.
"Make it quick. I don't want to see any of you here again after this."
"See? Isn't that way easier?" Marcus said, shrugging his shoulders and wandering off into one of the aisles in search of a few select items.
If he was going to go see his two roommates in the hospital, then peace offerings probably wouldn't be frowned upon. If he remembered his time in hospitals, then it was awfully drab and dreary, and he very much doubted any of the staff were being any more accomodating than this lady.
His arms loaded with a few things, including a bag of jerky for Callan and some snacks for himself and Emma, althought he was disappointed to see that the store didn't have any reading material for Siena, not even a grocery store tabloid or anything. Still, despite the lack of literature, he walked up behind Brent, patiently waiting his turn.
Brent was fairly certain that Martha, using tongs to grab chunks of chicken, was purposefully aiming for the smaller ones, or the overcooked ones, or basically all the ones that didn't look too good to eat. Would he have done the same if he was in her position?
...No, of course he wouldn't. What a pissy bitch. Hopefully Dreamcatcher airdrops some of its minions onto this town and does enough destruction that when the subnaturals come in to save the day, Martha would start treating them like the second coming of Jesus instead.
Wait, no, Jesus was Benediction.
Nevertheless, food was obtained and Brent thanked her as she tossed the receipt at him. Stepping out of the way, he walked out of the 7-11, opting to wait for his friends outside.
Ernie took little time to grab his own items. Shampoo, bodywash, and the like. No hair clippers though, much to his chagrin. He'd have to find another store for that. He hesitated as he crossed the snack section, eyeing the jerky with a frown. The blue phone was still weighing in his pocket and he contemplated the pros and cons of visiting Cal after what he had found out earlier. Maybe he'd be able to find a compromise.
Noticing the large amount of assorted goods Marcus was lining up to buy, Ernie called out. "Hey Marc, are you visiting the hospital after this?"
"That's the plan! If I can get out of here without being in handcuffs, that is!" Marcus called back, making no effort to hide the jab at the all-too-difficult saleswoman. The woman bristled again but bit back a retort as she scanned the items with a practiced efficiency. Marcus' purchase was finished in no time.
"Oh, cool," Ernie handed his own things to Martha and added some sweets and phone chargers to the pile. The cashier moved even faster than she had with Marcus, "Could you do me a solid, then?"
Ernie prepared a separate plastic bag, placing a phone charger and a bag of jerky in it. The blue, starry phone, wrapped with Cal's earphones was pulled from his pants pocket and tossed in last.
"I won't be able to visit Cal tonight. Can you give this to her for me?"
Marcus paused for a moment, taking his bag and looking to Ernie. "Is that her phone? How'd you manage to get your mitts on that?" Marcus said, taking a look at the items inside the bag, like how a small child would peek in their candy bag on Halloween.
It wasn't quite what he'd expected; he didn't take Callan as a 'fancy patterns across everything' kind of person, but how much did he know anyway? Not like he was an expert on phone design.
"Mitts?" Ernie raised an eyebrow. The weather was getting pretty cold recently, maybe he should buy himself a pair too. He blinked, and tried not to hesitate too much when he replied. It wasn't how he got the phone that was the problem anyway, it was what he'd seen on it, "She left it on the APC on the way here. Didn't really have a chance to get it back, being on the emergency truck and all, so I thought I'd keep it for a bit and give it back to her later."
"Yeah, 'mitts'. It's slang for....never mind." Marcus said, shaking away the meaningless diversion. The explanation was reasonable enough, and he mentally kicked himself for immediately assuming Ernie had done something shifty.
"I suppose I can play delivery boy for you!" Marcus said, with an over exaggerated eye roll and accompanying sigh. Grinning lightly, he snagged the bag from Ernie, gripping it along side his own.
"Heh. Thanks, buddy."
They left the store together, with Ernie ignoring the muttered "Good riddance" from the cashier. It wasn't worth the trouble, not while he was in front of two friends. As they rejoined Brent outside, the Aberration scratched his head sheepishly, addressing them both.
"Sorry for what happened in there. Guess I need to brush up on my Bad Cop routine."
He hadn't lost control in there. It wasn't a complete act either, but he didn't need them to know that. It worked, hadn't it?
"You two heading back now?" Brent asked as the duo left, spotting Martha's evil eye while their backs were turned. No need to start any shit though, only cross the 7-11 off potential places to grab food from.
"And no worries, the bad cop good cop only really works if there's only two cops." A pause. "Good thing you didn't get tazed though. Be super awkward for our routine if you start convulsing like a frog."
"What? You calling me a third wheel?" Marcus said with poorly feigned anger. He quickly shifted gears though, answering Brent's question: "Nah, I'm heading to the hospital. I want to check in on everybody and see how they're doing now that we've gotten a chance to relax."
Ernie laughed heartily. Ah, he missed this. It was nice to have a hangout like this after such a long day.
"Gosh, I didn't even know frogs did that. I think I'm gonna do some more shopping though. Still need some stuff. Hopefully the other places'll be nicer than this one. Are we parting ways here, then?"
"Yeah, sounds like it," Brent said, adjusting his grip on the bags, "Guess I'll be heading off to the hospital with you then, Marcus. Better not get shanked by some regular on the streets, Ernie!"
"I guess so!" Marcus added, giving Ernie a small salute. "If you do get shanked by regulars, make sure you get a few hits in for us little guys when you're beating the shit out of them!"
"Geez, you guys are the worst. But I'll do my best!"
Ernie wasn't too sure about Marcus' comment about 'beating the shit out of them' but he laughed along anyway. Hopefully he didn't mean anything too bad by it.
The Aberration waved and took his leave, jogging towards a CVS down the street.
"I'd say that went fairly well!" Marcus said, watching Ernie run off for a moment and turning quickly to face Brent. "Got a bunch of snacks, made some paparazzi angry, and only pissed off one grouchy old hag. I'd call that a win for team...us."
"Tsk tsk," Brent wagged his finger, "That's much too unambitious for a victory. Imagine if we got a cartload of snacks, convinced all the paparazzi to leave everyone alone, and turned the grouchy old hag into a subnatural rights activist. Now that'd be an A+ victory for Team Sesame Street!"
"Listen, we're a rag tag group of- Team Sesame Street?" Marcus said, his own thought process interrupting his sentance. He shook his head once, getting back on track. "A rag tag group of subnaturals, not miracle workers. I'm not sure what you've just described is at all feasible, if not completely impossible." he said, chuckling slightly.
"Just gotta try harder," Brent sang, "If you got a goal, might as well make that goal impossible and see how far up the ladder you go!"
He thought for a moment then, tilting his head to the side.
"But yeah...I guess I did shoot myself in the foot there by playing with those reporters that much."
"Oh yeah, that's definitely a segment I'm gonna have to record. How far did they follow us anyway? I wasn't paying attention: too busy trying not to trip over myself and end up sacrificed to the cameras."
"Wasn't like I was running backwards to taunt them either," Brent replied, "But man, if they actually do show this segment on TV...ugh, may have gone a bit too far. Hopefully Kardos doesn't roast me for the shit I spewed."
"Please. You think anybody actually cares what we do or say around here?" Marcus scoffed, giving Brent a side glance. "They're probably too busy trying to make sure all the super-powered kids don't blow up the school or something."
He gave a nonchalant shrug, following with: "Hell, if they really cared, they've probably got ways to take it off air. You know how powerful some of these government places are."
"True true," Brent nodded. "Martial law just never ended after the Slumber, eh?"
This was getting unpleasant.
"But that's enough about that. Tell me, Marcus my boi, how's the Emma life going for you? Was it you who struck first? Or her?"
Marcus nodded in silence with Brent, thinking about the whole situation. He'd only ever heard it referred to as 'The Slumber' a few times in his life. With everything going to shit like it had, most of the people he was around just referred to it as 'The Day Everything went to Hell'. He shuttered slightly - there had been a chill that day that he just couldn't describe, and thinking about it now still gave him goosebumps.
He looked up to the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of the 'veil' DC had supposedly made, but no such luck tonight.
The sudden change in conversation caught him by surprise, but as quickly as the topic came up, Marcus's tone became coy just as quickly. "Now now, don't you know it's rude to kiss and tell?"
"Wow, first base so soon?" Brent said, laughing, "Gotta go fast, eh?"
Marcus cocked one eyebrow, staring at Brent for a long second. A second that he ended by grinning and sassily flipping his non-existant flowing locks, grinning coyly. "Like I said; it's rude."
"My bad my bad, but it's stuff like this that really matters between us kids, eh?" Brent replied, hanging his bags by his wrists as he raised his hands in surrender. "Still though, if you won't share dem spicy deets, mind passing on some of your nuggets of romancing wisdom?"
Would he believe it? Nah, even if he didn't, it didn't matter.
"Gotta help a friend out and all, Mr. Love Master!"
"Man, I don't even know what I did. I couldn't pass on any 'nuggets of romancing wisdom' if I wanted to. Be yourself, yadda yadda puke, I guess?" he said, shrugging. It was honest; there was no reason one of his first interactions with Emma should have ended in a date, but it did.
Although, 'Have your roommate punch a hole in someone else' would probably be considered bad advice.
"Ew," Brent gagged in mock disgust, "Didn't realize you lived in a bad romance film, Marcus. Don't have any secret techniques like throwing love cards or making heart-shaped balloons?"
"Do I look like a Hallmark Movie character, man?" Marcus said, his tone one of fake disgust. There was a moment of silence before Marcus continued. "The correct answer here is 'no'. In case you were wondering. I don't have any super special 'romance moves' for you to steal."
"Well, you do have the whole lean and blond thing going on," Brent replied, grinning, "So yes, wouldn't be surprised if you showed up on the covers of those Walmart romance novels."
"Figured though. Guess the two of you just clicked, eh?"
"I guess! I made a joke, and she made the mistake of showing an interest in me, or at least my blooming charisma. Now we're here, and she has nobody to blame but herself!" Marcus said with another chuckle.
"A most nefarious scheme, befitting of such a dashing rogue," Brent said, going full thespian with his delivery.
"Truly it is, my good sire!" Marcus said, rebutting with his own thespian act. "And I did not even mean to scheme, but I've accidentally stolen the affection of a fair maiden. Truly my cunning knows no bounds, if it plots without my knowlege!"
The dim lights of the hospital cast across the pavement as the two subnaturals approached, Marcus looking up to the few windows to see if he could trace any activity. "You just visiting at random, or do you have a list of people you're here to see?"
"Plan on visiting everyone, so my course shall be dictated by the winds of fate," Brent replied, still coasting off the drama, "You got a hitlist, ye blackhearted scoundrel?"
"Gotta hit the roommates first, make sure they're adjusting well to the whole thing. Then probably check up on Lily, and Lawrence if he'll talk to me..." Marcus's tone was very businesslike as he counted the people on fingers as he said their names, and for a moment it almost seemed like he was reiterating the list for himself, but he turned back to Brent by the end of it.
"So yeah, I've got a bit of a hitlist!"
"I'll leave you to your assassinations then. See ya, dude."
"You as well, man! Marcus said, giving Brent a little wave. As they parted ways, he felt a little bit bad; the guy he'd been referring to as 'Dude McSpine Grab' for the last few weeks actually didn't seem like a bad guy.
Plus, if what Emma had mentioned was true, he was probably the only reason that everyone hadn't been killed. Something Marcus probably should have thanked him for, but by the time he turned around to say something, he'd decided against. It was too soon. He wasn't ready to talk about it, even in thanks to another teammate.
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